comedychick

Flight to Scotland... Part 2

Some time ago, I started writing this blog about my flight over to Scotland, (called 'Flight to Scotland... Part 1. Genius title, I know. You can find it here somewhere if you'd like all this to make some sense). Following that, there was 2 weeks of sleep deprivation during the actual festival, followed by the madness of Melburne Fringe Festival, followed by a bit of sleep, followed by me just flat out forgetting about it. So here's Part 2. Just in case you need closure.

Food service on international flights is like Christmas - it keeps coming, so you keep eating. You can't help but adopt an 'if you're making one' attitude, even when you're absolutely stuffed (a la Christmas!). "Coffee? Oh. Yes. Ok. I have just had second breakfast, juice, water, 2 coffees and a hot chocolate. But I will have a coffee, sure. IF YOU'RE MAKING ONE. And they always are making one!

And just like at Christmas, you feel an obligation to eat everything on your plate. Yes, you will eat that white chocolate mousse, even though you're on the verge of vomiting, because apart from the fact that you didn't have to make it, you don't have to wash the dishes, and you're in 'Well... it is Christmas...' mode, a tiny irrational part of you sincerely believes that you just paid $1000.00 for it. Yes, part of you doesn't really believe that any of your airfare is going towards aircraft maintenance, wages, taxes, or any other of the myriad of expenses involved in international air travel, but instead to the production of one geometrically perfect, but miniature, white chocolate mousse. And if you believe you just paid $1000 for a chocolate mousse, you're going to eat it!

Although the pretend food on Pretend British Airways (Qantas), is pretty good, some people just can't be pleased. Take the lady who was sitting in front of me, for example. Please. She is, apparently, 'gluten intolerant', and was not happy with any of the cereal choices Pretend British Airways had on offer. I just can't tolerate this type of intolerance. Why must people be so bloody difficult? Finally, the only authentically gay (and thank god for him) flight attendant brings out something she can have. But will she have milk with it? Noooooo! Of  course not. She's lactose intolerant, isn't she? So she eats the dry cereal without any milk. Honestly, why don't you just bring your own bag of chaff and be done with it, love? Would it kill you to have a little lactose and gluten once in a while if it made others' lives a bit easier? Probably. Fussy bitch. I'm not that choosey about such things myself. There's nothing I like better than a big bowl of gluten with lactose, sucrose, and fructose first thing in the morning.

Here's a brief but handy travel tip for you. When flying, you will be tempted to pull the oxygen mask down for the purpose of putting the cup on your head and rocking out to 'Whip it', a la Devo, circa 1983. Try not to. The cabin crew really frown upon it, for some reason.

Watching other passengers kind of fascinates me, and you do meet some nice people when you're flying. I was seated next to two extremely attractive young girls on the first leg of the flight. They were travelling to Hong Kong 'for business as toy buyers'. I am not saying they were high end prostitutes at all. In fact the toy girls may be just that, because neither of them apparently had any need to go the toilet at all the entire time. From Melbourne to Hong Kong. There are many coffees and other drinks between Melbourne and Hong Kong, I can tell you! What the hell, Toy Girls? Do you have catheters in? Needless to say, I had the window seat, and pretty much just held on to it rather than disturb the sleep of the apparently heavily sedated toy girls with super duper bladders.

Note to self: do not choose window seat again, for obvious reasons. Although I learnt a useful skill from a guy sitting next to me on another part of the journey, who was an acrobat. And this is the skill of delicately climbing barefoot over the top of other passengers using only the armrests, (much like Spiderman), without any embarrassment at all, in order to go to the toilet or have a stretch without disturbing other passengers. I am now great at this. I also sat next to a young Chinese guy who told me he was studying for his Masters in Economics. GO ON!

If you tire of watching people, there are always movies to watch, and I swear to god, if I haven't seen 'Good Will Hunting' on every flight I've ever taken over the last 20 years, I will go cook something! I did also watch a fascinating documentary on the plane, called 'Hidden Hard Boiled Eggs, Crouching Chinese Grandmother, Pissed Off Flight Attendant!' Oh hang on, that wasn't a film. That actually happened. Seriously. There was this tiny, wizened, Chinese lady, who was very ancient, maybe about 150. She looked like those dolls they make out of dried up apples - to scale, even! She was so old, you really couldn't tell what her gender was, if not for her pierced ears. I figured dudes probably did not pierce both ears 150 years ago, so she must be a woman.

Anyway, she was travelling with her son and daughter in law, who were each possibly about 100 themselves. After eating everything on offer, Chinese Grandmother San appears to be telling her son that she is still hungry. How is this possible? Where the hell is she putting this food? Her dutiful son reaches into a bag, and pulls out, without a word of a lie, about 20 hard boiled eggs, which he, his wife, and Cool Hand Luke Grandmother San proceed to peel and eat with relish (you know I don't mean they had some relish with them, right?). Chinese Grandmother San personally eats about ten of these. Ten! How the hell did the Chinese Egg Eaters manage to get that many hard boiled eggs on the plane? I have no idea, and it seemed the irate flight attendant was asking the same question, as she demanded the family put the mountain of eggshells in a rubbish bag she'd brought. Hard boiled eggs and a close environment with little oxygen are not a good combination, she seemd to be telling them.  Chinese Grandmother San's expression didn't change at all. It's quite possible that she's so old, she can't change her expression. She could die,and you would not know. It wouldn't be from  malnutrition though! I know what you're thinking. This would have made a great episode of 'Border Security'. It so would have too. This little relic would make a great mule.

The great thing about flying is that you get your little bags of goodies. Presents for the kids? Sorted. Hey guys - I know you wanted i-pods, but look what I got you! Some tiny toothbrushes, special sleeping masks, and matching socks! But wait - there's more! A tiny packet of Mentos, some sort of Chinese cake, and a packet of raisins! I know. They were speechless.

When the plane finally arrived in Edinburgh, it was pitch black. Then I remembered to take my sleeping mask off. Strangely, I didn't actually write about Edinburgh itself. I really didn't sleep much the entire time I was there, so it's all a blur. I'm told it was great, though. And now we have closure.

And Tap Fittings...

 

A long time ago, in my former professional life, (when I was relatively normal and had not quite mutated into a comedian), I used to look after this guy who, let's face it, was a little bit mental. Don't get all arsey with me about my diagnosis - as a trained mental health professional I can make that call.

In most aspects of his life, he functioned at quite a high level, but he was continuously tortured by the frequent compulsion to say "And tap fittings". Out of nowhere, while you were in the midst of having quite a good conversation with him, he'd vague out, look away, and say "And tap fittings". And tap fittings, and tap fittings, and tap fittings.

He was all about the tap fittings, this guy, (and tap fittings). He was unable to prevent himself from saying "And tap fittings', no matter what. No matter what medication or treatment he tried, his tap fitting click was amazingly resistant. Maybe it was some kind of super power, but no-one could identify it as such, the medical and psychiatric communities typically unable to understand such a powerful, but seemingly useless, super power. (And tap fittings). Possibly, the phrase "And tap fittings" unleashed some fantstic force, or was the gateway to a parallel dimension, but he was ahead of his time, and diagnosed with a mental illness, as so many super heroes are.

Anyway, he was a lovely guy, who had other interests than just tap fittings. He was also into bonsai. But amazingly, he did not have much luck with the ladies. (And tap fittings). I guess it's probably hard to find a lady who's into such specific interests as tap fittings and tiny trees, but there's probably a website somewhere. Also, it has to be said, it would be a little off-putting being in the midst of passionate shagging with a guy who could go from "Oh baby... oh baby... that's right baby... oh baby oh baby OH BABY..." to the dull, monotones of "And tap fittings" in a matter of seconds. If I were his girlfriend, which I certainly would not have been, due to professional ethics and an aversion to bonsai, I would have countered this dilemma by saying, seductively, "Show me your tap fittings, baby. Give me ALL your tap fittings". That might have worked, but I did not put it in his care plan. Psychiatric care at that time was not that holistic. Like "Super And Tap Fittings Guy", I was ahead of my time.

Out of every person I ever looked after, (and tap fittings), 'And Tap Fittings Guy' was one of my favourites, and has stuck with me. Probably because the phrase 'and tap fittings' comes to me at the most ridiculous times, (have you noticed?), and makes me laugh. Can you catch a compulsion? I can't say. (And tap fittings). But I'll never forget this guy, and his bonsai, and his teeny, tiny trees. Probably because he used his super powers to infect me with the 'And tap fittings' bug, and now I occasionally think it at the most inappropriate of times myself. But I don't SAY it. That would be crazy! (And tap fittings).

I'm pretty sure 'And Tap Fittings' guy has passed away, so I'm not too concerned about identifying him. Even if he were alive, he would obviously be more concerned with tap fittings than my identification of him in a blog. I hope he's gone somewhere nice. Maybe a bloody big plumbing showroom, full of taps. And tap fittings, of course.

The end.

And tap fittings.

Flight To Scotland... Part 1.

Last night / this morning / yesterday... oh I don't know when it was, I've totally lost touch with reality since getting on this plane... I left for a quickish trip to Glasgow and Edinburgh to catch up with family and friends, and of course, to do a few bits and pieces at the Edinburgh Fringe.

Having one thousand kids, (ok, 4),I assumed that at least one of them would want to come to the airport to see me off. Not so much. Me "Do you want to come for a drive to the airport to see me off today?" Kid "What time are you going?". Me "6.00 o'clock". Kid "The Simpsons are on at 6.00 o'clock, Mum". Fair enough.

I'm flying British Airways - the V-Line of the sky. Or so I thought. Turns out, I'm flying 'Qantas FOR British Airways', Qantas apparently being the 'plain brand' version of the more expensively packaged British Airways. What the hell, Qantas? You can't just go around passing yourself off as British Airways like that. You don't see 'Target FOR Chanel', do you?

You wouldn't just expect people to pay to see Kylie Minogue, then say "Oh sorry, Kylie's got something else on. But here's Danii Minogue. Have a few vodkas and you won't know the difference." Not good enough, British Airways. As for you, Qantas - you are such a try hard!

I must say firstly how dismayed I am at the political correctness gone mad in the airline industry these days. A number of the male flight attendants on my flight were unattractive, and appeared also to be quite straight.

I'm sorry - this is just not right! My expectation, when I buy an airline ticket, is that the male flight attendants should be pretty, and gay in both manner and sexual orientation. I imagine it's different for guys. They most likely prefer their flight attendants look like Malibu Barbie, but with an accent. But for my money, I like to be served by gay guys. A gay guy just really knows how to look after a lady.

You might be surprised to hear I am flying economy class. The great thing about flying economy is that there's just so much room. For your overhead luggage, that is. Oh yeah. It's sprawled out up there ike the Samsonite mate of the month, while the economy passengers are folded tightly into tiny compartments. I guess this is why the guy next to me keeps putting his hand on my lap. There's just no room for it anywhere else!

This is not the case in First or Business class, however. Or 'Premium Economy', which appears to be a bit shit, but not as shit as regular Economy. They all have more leg room than the average Chinese family, (China, coincidentally, being the country I'm currently flying over).

You could get up to all sorts of things in First and Business class. You could do yoga. Or try out all of the positions in the Kama Sutra if you're on a really long haul flight. If I ever get to fly first class, I will not have sprawled out sex in my seat, however. Out of respect for my comrades in economy class. You have to remember your roots.

Flying amuses me. I love the way the Flight Attendants do their little safety dance at the beginning of each flight. How much must the absolutely be sick and tired of it? The constant repetition must have a similar effect on them as Christmas music does on department store staff - particularly when it's sung by Wham! I'd love to see someone sneak a little Wiggles move in there one day - 'Hot Potatoe, Hot Potatoe' perhaps. It would be one way to check if anyone really is paying attention.

Still, they manage to smile and laugh their way through it. I wonder if they'd still giggle their way through it while doing the routine as the plane is ripping in two, plummeting into the ocean from 32,000 feet? I imagine they would. They are professionals. 

I also like the way you get 'second breakfast' if you have a stopover early in the morning. It's so MIddle Earth. Although, it would be a bit of a stretch to describe what they serve you as 'food'. I'd describe it as more of a 'food like substance'. It's food, Jim, but not as we know it! For example, there's scrambled eggs, but it's different to the scrambled eggs we have at home. We make ours with eggs.

(Believe it or not, there is a Part 2 to this. What? More? Yes. But as I'm currently jetlagged to the max, I'll finish it tomorrow. Laters!)

Gay David, Moustache Girl, and My High School Reunion...

It's weird running into people you used to go to school with. It can even be weird running into the parents of people you used to go to school with. I bumped into the parents of a boy I used to go to primary school with recently, and had the most surreal chat with his mother. After we'd talked a bit about what I'd been up to, I asked her what her son was doing with himself. "Oh, he's good. Really good. Isn't he Stan?". Stan doesn't bother replying, knowing it's not really expected. "No, he's not married yet. Just hasn't really met the right girl yet, has he Stan? Actually, David's never really had a girlfriend. Plenty of time for that, though. No hurry." He's 'never really had a girlfriend'. At 42. Okey doke, then... "He is lucky he has lots of mates though. He has a very nice friend, Steven, who lives with him, and he's lovely, isn't he Stan? Steven spoils him, actually, he does nearly all the cooking and cleaning, which is good for David, just until he gets a girlfriend, because he's hopeless!" Uh-huh. "Steven and David do everything together, they do a lot of travelling, and go to a lot of shows together. They just went up to Melbourne to see Billy Elliot the other week, didn't they, Stan?".

Let me be honest right now and acknowledge that I have the world's worst 'gaydar'. I really do. If I'm not told directly, I pretty much think lesbians are just straight women who like wearing their hair really short. I can't pick if you're from the land of gay, or not. And it doesn't matter at all to me, because I just love everyone. Regardless. But at this point in our conversation, I'm getting a little bit frustrated. I'm a peaceful person by nature, but I just had this incredible urge to grab this woman by the shoulders, and shake her really, really, hard, while shouting "HE'S GAY!! DAVID IS GAY!! STEVEN IS HIS PARTNER!! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST ACCEPT THIS, YOU STUPID, STUPID WOMAN!! BILLY ELLIOT, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!". Annoying! She should be celebrating her son's gayness! Does she not know that it's hip to be gay right now? I wish to god that I were gay. It would have really given my comedy an edge. But no. My parents didn't see fit to pass on any gayness to me, did they? They gave all the gay to my brother and sister, leaving me with only straight, white, and bloody fertile! Can you get any more pedestrian than that? Favouritism! Anyway. Gay David's mum just goes on smiling inanely at me. So I told her to give David my love, (not that he'd want it, because he's gay and all...), and said goodbye.

The only thing weirder than running into people you used to go to school with, (and their actively delusional parents), is The High School Reunion. No-one from my high school year could be bothered organising a reunion for years. Obviously, the reason for this is that everyone is 'just waiting until they lose 5 kilos' until they feel they can go. Eventually, though, a few of the girls organised a reunion of our 30 year anniversary of starting high school,(30 years, you say? Wouldn't that make you..? Shut up, please. Obviously I started school very early. Don't do the math.), and thankfully, I knew I could attend, because I had bumped into a few of the girls and knew that there were quite a few with bigger asses than mine. And one had a moustache.

I'm quite well behaved in social situations on the whole. But I was worried about the moustache, and became quite pre-occupied with developing strategies that might help me get through some polite reminiscing with Moustache Girl. I have to say, it at least distracted me from worrying about the size of my ass! Mostly, I was worried about obviously looking at the moustache, instead of the girl, in some Austen Powers like trance, (if you have not seen the 'mole' scene in 'Goldmember', you are beyond help. Rent it immediately.). I became anxious that I might refer to all things moustache while catching up. "So, are you still married to Moe? How are the little tashes? Do you still live up Moustache creek way?"

I developed a list of strategies, and a mantra, that I could use to keep myself out of trouble. I MUST NOT: A. Look at, or speak to moustache as if it were an individual or entity in it's own right, B. Refer to Moustache Girl as Derryn Hinch, C. Mention pedophiles around Derryn Hinch, and D. SEE C! DO NOT REFER TO MOUSTACHE GIRL AS DERRYN HINCH!

By the day of the reunion, I knew I had to stop being ridiculous about it. I resolved to try and see Moustache Girl as the 14 year old girl I used to know, instead of seeing her as the construction worker out of The Village People. After all, it's only a bit of facial hair. It should not matter. It's a trivial thing. "Trivial Hirsuit!" I thought to myself, realising I might be in big trouble, as my mind was now on a roll with the seemingly endless moustache gags that I apparently had no control over.

The day arrived, and I was surprisingly well behaved, only describing the time we nearly got caught by the headmaster for leaving the school grounds as 'a close shave' once. It was getting late, and I was relieved. I was definately on the home straight. I could definately pull this off. Then, as it often does, the talk amongst the girls turned to all things beauty and ageing. And hair removal. And waxing. And this very nearly brought me unstuck. Because it was at this point, that Moustache Girl announced that she 'regularly has brazilians'. That's right. She regularly leaves Tasmania for Brazil. She frequently engages in deforestation of her pubic region. "Oh yeah", she says "I JUST CAN"T STAND HAVING ANY HAIR DOWN THERE."

Oh. My. God. I was just beyond myself. My  jaw dropped. My mouth was shout, but my inner voice was screaming "You can't stand having any hair DOWN THERE? But you refuse to wax that caterpillar on your upper lip? YOU LOOK LIKE A MAN! YOU HAVE A MOUSTACHE! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE HAIR DOWN THERE! AND NOT 'UP HERE"! ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? HONEY, YOU WOULD LOOK MORE LIKE A REAL WOMAN IF YOU STRIPPED NAKED AND STOOD ON YOUR HEAD! AT LEAST THEN YOU'D HAVE HAIR ON THE BOTTOM HALF, AND NOT THE TOP!"

I was seriously one bourbon and coke away from saying that. But I didn't. Thank god. I just said "Well you look fantastic!". And went home, completely exhausted from behaving appropriately.

(Please note, names have been changed to protect the gay and hirsuit).

The Grateful Dead Get Stimulated...

When Kevin Rudd said he wanted policies that would be inclusive of ‘all Australians’, he was not kidding! And to prove he’s a man of his word, he’s rolled out $900 stimulus payments to 16,000 dead people in an initiative likely to exceed $14,000,000. You can’t get more inclusive than that!

 

This is a fantastic initiative for surely the most disadvantaged in our community, but the backlash from the opposition, and the media, typifies the sort of treatment our dead have had to endure for far too long. It’s a harsh and stingy attitude towards this progressive new policy, which finally acknowledges the contribution made by, and the rights of, our deceased population. After all, if anyone needs to be stimulated it’s the dead!

 

Opposition to this brave and just policy is discrimination of the worst kind. And since it discriminates against all dead people, you’d have to say that it was ageist, sexist, and racist. In fact, since this is going to be an issue, let’s just give this a new title: ‘Deadist – To discriminate against an individual on the basis of their ability to be alive’.

 

Fair go, haters! The dead are the most forgotten group in our community. What with vampires and zombies making a big comeback, you’d have to agree that even the undead get more attention than the dead! The dead have contributed so much to our society before their demise. And they selflessly contribute even more by decreasing the burden on the taxpayer by dying! Why shouldn’t they get a little bonus from time to time, like the rest of us?

 

It’s not like it’s easy for them, you know. For one thing, they’re dead! Unless, of course, they’re a character on ‘Lost’, and they come back to life every two minutes in some sort of a time - space continuum. Which in itself, would be kind of a drag.

 

Also, the dead never get to find out WHAT HAPPENS. This would suck. It would be like getting three quarters of the way through a good book, then never getting to find out what happens between Elizabeth Bennett and Colin Firth. Sorry, Mr Darcy. Do they finally get together, or are they destined to make unhappy matches with the likes of Miss Bennett and one of Mr Collins’ brothers? And what of the other big questions? Will we all die when global warming’s at its peak, or will Kim Jong Ill nuke us to kingdom come next week? Will Bert Newton’s toupee, as Celine Dion says, ‘go on and on’?

 

They also have a very hard time communicating with friends and family, what with mediums being in short supply. Mind you, if you live in the bush, and you’re with Telstra, you’re not much better off!

 

 And then there’s the funeral expenses!’Let's face it – dying’s not cheap, is it? You’ll want a bang up funeral. There’s the top end, velvet-lined coffin you hope your family will be guilted into purchasing, instead of the basic box that looks like it was made by a Year 9 student in woodwork. Then you have to book someone for the gig – MCs and Ministers aren’t cheap you know. And the floral arrangements – a couple of wreaths could gobble up the stimulus payment in it’s entirety – and the purpose of the package, boosting retail sales, would be served right there! Paying the Apra rights to AC/DC to use “Highway To Hell” (the most popular funeral song at the moment), although with the lads living offshore, the stimulus would follow them along with those ‘other’ offshore expats (the other sore point for KRudd critics). Never mind your catering for the wake, especially with all those ‘special needs’ diners needing their gluten fee, dairy free, and nut-free, and all the ‘special needs’ drinkers – who only drink top shelf. And if every Tom, Dick and Harry turns up, you’re $20 pre head goes out the window!

 

The advantages of the dead person stimulus payments, or the ‘DPSP’ are many. For example, it would mean that people who were ineligible for the package while living, would finally get something, and therefore hopefully stop whingeing! Shut up the lot of you. EVERYONE will get this payment. Eventually. Although euthanasia might become more prevalent, because let’s face it, some people would do anything to get their hands on a payment!

 

It would also be handy for pensioners who are running a little short of cash till payday, and can’t pay their tab at the RSL. “That’s OK, Les. You can fix me up when you’re dead.”

 

At the end of the day, if life is a movie, Kevin Rudd is Haley Joel Osment. He ‘sees dead people’, as a population who have rights, and needs. Although you’re no longer legally allowed to vote when you’re dead, (except in the 2000 US Presidential election), this will eventually be a real vote winner. Just as soon as Kevin Rudd gives the dead back the vote.

 

 

 

(This is a little piece I wrote collaboratively with fellow lady comic, Wendy Little. Or as I like to say 'feat' Wendy Little. It just sounds so much cooler... I just love collaborative projects. As long as there are no rugby players involved...)

Horror Train...

 

My twisted affair with comedy means that I frequently have to enjoy the gentle charm of the train ride to, and from, the Mecca for comedians that is Melbourne. I can't tell you what an absolute delight this is. Because that would be lying. The football enthusiasts late at night. The emo couple sucking each other's heavily pierced faces off opposite me, (and surely causing untold damage to their respective tongues, because at least one of them appears to have a tiny pitchfork through his). The iced out dudes regalling each other with tales of their sexual exploits for the benefit of the little old lady and her grandchildren across the aisle, and possibly, me. And I do indeed find their blow by blow description of lusty times 'with two hot lesbians' fascinating, erotic, and credible in the extreme. After all, what lesbians wouldn't want to enhance their lovemaking with the addition of a stoned, feral 16 year old on day leave from the detention centre?

Most of the train staff are lovely. But at least one way on each trip, there will be a 'Train Nazi'. And these train personnel are highly skilled in the art of humiliation - particularly if you BREAK THE LAW OF THE TRAIN BY PLACING YOUR FEET ON THE SEAT OPPOSITE YOU. This is an extremely serious offence, which is treated with due severity by the Train Nazi, who are all trained in what I'd describe as 'ripping you a new one', (or to be more 'p.c' - delivering this line in a loud and scathing manner): "WOULD YOU MIND REMOVING YOUR FEET FROM THE SEAT! IT'S AGAINST V-LINE RULES YOU KNOW. I COULD FINE YOU A LOT OF MONEY FOR THAT. A LOT OF MONEY. HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF I CAME OVER TO YOUR GRANDMOTHER'S PLACE AND PUT MY FEET UP ON HER LOUNGE SUITE?" To which I would like to respond: "Well it wouldn't really worry me that much, because Nanna's got plastic on her couch. All Nanna's do. It's the law." Followed by: "My Nanna's are both dead, you insensitive prick! Thanks for bringing it up."

It's gotten to the point that as well as personally  refraining from attempting to achieve any level of comfort on the train  myself, I am now scanning the carriage with hypervigialence for the entire trip so I can save unknowing relaxed commuters from their certain fate. I'm like the Schindler of V-Line. "Excuse me, but just so you know, certain train personnel really carry on about people having their feet on the seats, and aren't afraid to bring your grandmother into it, either!" The thanks I get for this is occasionally a sulky "Whatever" expression, (as though I'm the Nazi!), or a "Really?", accompanied by the all too familiar 'are you insane, woman?' look. But that's ok. I can live with that. It's for the greater good.

These last few weeks trips coming home from doing my comedy festival show the night before have been particularly harrowing. As well as often  having little to no sleep, it's fair to say that there's quite the battle for space going on in my bloodstream between last night's bourbon, and my red and white blood cells. And this is a war that my blood cells will not win until much later in the day. In other words, I'm seedy as!

In this state, I find it harder than usual to tolerate the ambience of the country train, and the little quirks and eccentricities of the train dwellers. But yesterday, was the worst. It was so bad, I wondered if I might be being 'punked', or part of one of those shows where actors do extreme things to test people's reactions.

So in the seat opposite me, there's a guy who has 'a bit of a cold', and as such, finds it neccessary to, (there's no nice way to say this), suck the snot back into his nose. Every 60 seconds. EVERY 60 SECONDS. Without fail. Every 60 seconds, he snorts and does the snot sucking thing. I scan the train for empty seats so I can move, or pretend to get off at the next stop, (because for reasons not fully understood even to me, I don't want to hurt the snot sucker's feelings). It really sucks to be born kind.

But after a while, it's getting to me. I'm trying to read a book, which I keep having to start again every time he snorts. I start thinking of all the things I'd rather be doing, than being on this train right now. Eat raw eel. Sleep with Andrew Bolt. Stuff like that. Eventually, I'm running low on empathy, and my thoughts have turned to: Please get a tissue. Please stop doing that. Please die. Go on. You look old. You've had a good run. Please die, please die, please die, please die... Get off this train, or I will kill you. I will kill you myself. I don't have much energy, and what I do have I need to save for pretending to be perky when I get home, but I'll do it. I'll make it look like an accident. They'll think you choked on  your own snot.

Just as I decide I will, in fact, jump from the train myself, he gets off. Off the train, I mean. I'm not saying 'he got off'. And I am happy. Life is sweet. Another guy sits in Snot Guy's seat. He looks a little stabby, to be quite frank, but I'm almost home. And almost asleep. The train hits something. BANG! Not something big, like  a person. At least, not a big person. Probably a stick or something. But there's a loud BANG! The crazy guy stands up and scream his guts out! He screams the scream of the damned. Or someone who has been travelling with V-Line for too long. Then, he sits down. NO-ONE BATS AN EYELID! Like that's a normal occurrence on the 11.15 train to Bendigo. I am silently freaking out, fairly certain that we are all going to die. Pissed of about it, too. but fascinated that no-one is reacting in the slightest. I feel like Sean off 'Sean Of The Dead'. I get it! This is a zombie train, and everyone on it is a zombie! I'm the only one who is not a zombie. But, desperately in need of sleep and a double hit of an extreme caffeine beverage, with a Red Bull chaser, I am starting to feel zombie-like.

I stand at the door of the train before the train stops, and walk out into the real world, much more quickly than neccesary, but those zombies can get a bit of speed up. Tonight, I drive to Melbourne. And maybe have a few less bourbons.

Sammy J's 'The Backwards Song', Melbourne International Comedy Gala, 2009...

 

As I'm in the thick of what promises to be an awesome Melbourne International Comedy Festival, (and this is a comedy blog!), I'm posting bits and pieces from comics I know, and love, so that those of you who live in the Wide,Wide, World of Web, can share some of the joy that is that is the comedy festival. Rumour has it that not everyone in the whole wide world has seen the Melbourne International Comedy Festival's annual 'Gala' show, and if that's the case - shame on you! What, you're getting so many laughs at home and in your job that you can't use a few more? For free, even?

Sammy J is not only one of the most talented comics on the Australian comedy scene, he is also one of the nicest guys you will meet. I love 'The Backwards Song', and was thrilled to see Sammy totally wow the crowd at 'The Gala'. Kudos to you, Sammy! Maybe you should go and see him at the Melbourne Town Hall in his MICF show 'Sammy J - 1999'- it's on every day except Mondays for the duration of the festival. Enjoy. And go and see some comedy!

Emo Rap: Fox Klein's Emo's Paradise...

From Elmo to emos... Actually, when I got up this morning, I found an emo in my bathroom - just staring at me! But it was just me - I forgot to take my mascara off again last night. Scary! This is my 'Tim Minchin' look - a cool look for a guy. Not so much for a lady girl like myself.

Anyhow, check out my mate Fox Klein's hilarious emo video, also featuring the lovely Nicky Talacko as the quack who's supposed to be coming to his Emo-tional rescue. You can check out both their shows at the Melbourne international Comedy Festival throughout April. After you've seen mine!

 

Ricky Gervais Meets Elmo...

It seems she will stop at nothing to avoid working on her upcoming Melbourne International comedy Festival Show - not even speaking of herself in the third person! And watching You Tubes, and checking out her My Space, and Facebook, etc, etc...

So anyway, here's one of my favourite characters of all time, Elmo, trying to interview Ricky Gervais - who's being a very naughty boy. I love it when Elmo totally loses his shit in an interview! This is how I know he's a real person, (who just need some serious waxing) - not just some 'Hollywood puppet'. Like Zac Efron. Love it.

 

Earth Hour 2009...

No, it's not some rock concert starring some old fossils, 'making a comeback', (that I didn't get to, and am not the teensiest bit bitter about!). It's Earth Hour, and I'm really going to try and turn everything off at 8.30pm tonight, so I can imagine I'm part of this very cool video. Oh, and to save the world and stuff!

I wasn't sure if I'd post this clip, because if it's it's not somewhat amusing, I usually won't post it. But when I'm unsure about a vid, I put it through a rigourous testing procedure, which I like to call: 'The Rigorous Testing Procedure'. Basically, this means if I watch something and it gives me a physical sensation, (I'm talking goosebumps here! Keep it clean, please!), I'll post it. And this clip gives me goosebumps - it moves me. This may be because I love the song on it, 'One Crowded Hour', by Augie March. Or I may be coming down with something. But the goosebumps never lie, so here's the clip. Happy Earth Hour!

(Do you think it would be poor form to be on Facebook during Earth Hour?)